


Sherlock

by Katzedecimal



Series: The New Pub [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Other, Silly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets of <i>Sherlock</i>, written for The New Pub</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cycles

**Author's Note:**

> original prompt: elements

Water nourished Wood. Wood fueled Fire. Fire replenished Earth. Earth yielded Metal. Metal resembled Water. 

A feeding cycle, each fueling the other, replenishing, nourishing... supporting. That's how life had been with John. John and Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. ...but mostly John. Each supporting and fuelling him as he had supported and fuelled them, however much they denied it. 

Metal cut Wood. Wood drained Earth. Earth muddied Water. Water doused Fire. Fire melted Metal. 

A destructive cycle, tearing each other apart - Mycroft, Moriarty, Anderson and Donovan. And they'd succeeded.

_I may play on the side of the angels, but don't for one second believe that I am one._

Was that why the angels hadn't won? 

The Good Guys always won, in the stories told by their nanny. But Mummy had been wiser. _Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose,_ she had said, _These things tend to go in cycles._

He missed John. Relationships were a weakness, he'd been proven oh so very **right** about that point, and John was his biggest weakness of all. And he missed John terribly. 

The rain hammered down, drumming on the sagging roof of the abandoned shipping container. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes was dead, but the man who'd worn that name pulled his coat tighter around himself. Water dripped down his face and nourished nothing.


	2. Hobbies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a new hobby. It's contagious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: an image of penguins wearing little sweaters. yes.

"What."

John looked up with a boyish grin at Sherlock's flat tone, "Yes, you heard that correctly."

_"Penguin sweaters?"_

"Yup!"

"Let me see if I have this correctly: You're learning to knit, so that you can knit penguin sweaters."

"Little ones, yup! Little sweaters. For little penguins. They're little penguins so they need little sweaters." John's grin was starting to hurt his cheeks. 

He watched as Sherlock sucked in his breath, held it for several seconds, then exploded out with "Why?"

John's grin got even wider, "Because of the oil spills." Oh he was having far too much fun with this, watching Sherlock's microexpressions as his friend tried to work out the logic chain behind this. "The oil sticks to the little penguins' feathers and destroys their protective coating. The rescue workers wash the oil off and that destroys the feathers' water-proofing and insulating qualities, so the little penguins get a chill. So they put these little sweaters on them to keep them warm until their feathers can replenish their coating."

"Alright, I suppose that does make sense," Sherlock conceded, "But why are you going to the trouble of knitting stripes into them?"

"If I'm going to be knitting something as ridiculous as penguin sweaters, I want to have as much fun with it as possible." John grinned wider still as Sherlock gave up. No, no, he couldn't resist... "Want to help? I've got extras."

So he was quite surprised when Sherlock shrugged and said, "Alright, I suppose so. But we'll need to pop 'round to the wools shop, I'm not using those."

John looked at the needles in his hands, "These are wrong? Wait, you know how to knit?"

"Of course," Sherlock shrugged again, "Mummy taught me, and her way was a darned sight faster, I can tell you that."

Now it was John's turn to shrug, "Alright then. Since I'm just learning anyways, I might as well learn to do it your Mum's way if you're so convinced it's better. Let's go."

* * * *

"What."

John and Sherlock looked up with boyish grins at Mycroft's flat tone, "Yes, you heard that correctly."

"You two are knitting _penguin sweaters?"_

"Yup!" they chorused. 

Mycroft pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, " _You_ are knitting _penguin sweaters."_

Sherlock held up the tiny tube of wool, "With stripes! In a Fibonacci sequence!"

"And using Mummy's needles too, I note."

"Of course."

"It really is faster," John added. 

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. He really didn't know what to say. "Well.... I suppose everyone needs a hobby."


	3. Screaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is grieving. Hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original prompt: seagulls

The gulls screamed on the beach, teeming in their hundreds, maybe thousands. Wheeling overhead under the grey sky, paddling on the water, picking at the body washed up onto the sand, and the gulls screamed. 

He knelt down to examine the corpse, trying to discipline his mind, trying to filter out the teeming, screaming birds. Trying not just to see, but to observe. 

_You should be here,_ he thought. Not for the first time, not for the last. _You should be doing this, not me. Not me._

 _Not me! Not me!_ the gulls screamed, taunting him. 

Pecking at the missing arm, missing foot, the missing eyes... He put a glove on and reached out to turn the cadaver's head. He heard a couple of rookies retch as it nearly came off in his hands. 

_Where are you?_

The gulls screamed and he tried to concentrate, examining the wounds, looking for the signs that would tell him... what? He knew the wounds were telling him something but he was too stupid, too - ha - clueless, to hear. He could see but not observe and he felt like screaming.... 

"Suicide," he heard his own voice say. 

Lestrade looked up, "What?"

"A jumper. There's a river mouth a few miles south of here and a bridge upstream of it. This person jumped. Nope, I'm mistaken, they were pushed - it's a murder after all."

"How so?"

"They went over the bridge and struck their head on a rock, but the wound is here and this angle, it indicates they went over head-first."

"Then the murderer found the body and took the foot and arm as trophies," Anderson said decisively. 

He rolled his eyes. Even the seagulls were screaming their derisive laughter. _Now I know how you felt, dealing with this._ "No. The body's been submerged for some time. The arm was probably chewed off and taken away by carnivores. The foot detached naturally as the body rotted, it'll probably wash up somewhere else. The body was carried here by the current." He gazed at the body again, taking in what was left of the clothes, "Probably spur of the moment, probably an argument. Check out the boyfriend."

Lestrade nodded, "Very good. Thank you, Dr. Watson." As they turned away, he heard Anderson murmur, "How d'you know **he's** not making it up?" and the screaming of the gulls couldn't drown it out. 

And he couldn't stop the images, he couldn't stop remembering. _It's your fault!_ he wanted to scream, _You **know** he wasn't lying! But you are a jealous twat who can't be bothered using your own brain and can't abide anybody who can! **You** helped it to happen! You wanted it to happen!_ The gulls screamed and he wanted to scream with them, rage with his gun and take out every foolish idiot of them, every one who had to destroy what was beautiful and gifted because they didn't have it themselves... 

The gulls screamed. It started to rain.


	4. 4 (and a bit) Elements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds something he and Sherlock can always agree on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original prompt: _The Fifth Element_

"I heard they had to splice together the voices of three different singers in order to create the Diva's full range."

"..mm."

"Why'd they choose Milla Jovovich as the perfect being? She's not hot, why do people think she's hot? She's skinnier than you are and her hair is overprocessed."

"...mm. That's the fourth time you've said that, John."

"Well it's true," John said defensively.

"It's only your opinion."

"What, do you think she's hot then?"

"No."

"So there you go, you agree with me."

"I agree that I don't find her hot," Sherlock conceded, "But the only truth is that that's merely our perception."

"...mm." A long pause while they appreciated the choreography of the fight scene spliced in with the Diva's performance. "What about Bruce Willis, then?"

"What about him?"

"Is he hot?"

"No."

"Right. So we agree that the leading actors are not hot."

"I suppose we do." The silence stretched out again. "Why is it so important to you?"

John shrugged, "It's not, really. I just... what's the point of casting lead actors who aren't hot?"

"Perhaps they were cast because they're good actors."

"Do you think they're good actors in this movie?"

Sherlock paused and considered the often stilted, sometimes overdone deliveries and shook his head, "No."

"Well there goes that theory then."

John felt Sherlock start to grin then press his face into his knees and start giggling. Then he turned enough to look up at John, "Why the hell are we watching this movie?"

"Because I like tearing apart the old classics." John grinned back at the man who had inexplicably slumped into his lap, whose hair he was now idly stroking his fingers through. Well... alright, mayyyyyyyyyyyyyyybe there was just a **bit** of the Fifth Element here, too. Maybe. But just a bit.


	5. Hounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone on the moor, Sherlock sees the giant Hound! ....or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: blue & full of spoilers   
> (incorporates a sneaky "I see what you did there" in _"Hounds of Baskerville"_ that Moffat snuck in hoping fans would notice)

Fading.

In and out. 

But it wasn't right. No it couldn't be right. 

There was a... a _roar_

And red eyes, through the fog. 

That's what you saw, when you are being chased by enormous mutant hounds, right?

Right? 

Right? 

Not a flashing light, then? 

Not a blue box, fading out of the mist? 

An enormous hound. An enormous, _terrifying_ hound. 

If a blue box appears out of the mist in the forest and no one is coherant enough to hear it, does it still make a sound? 

And if it would, would it sound like asthmatic elephants? 

No, it would not. It would sound like a hound. 

A hound sound. A sound hound. A hound 'round the pound on the Sound. 

_Whoever he is, he's not well, Doctor._

Doctor? Doctor... his dear, dear Doctor... did the hound get him? His dear Doctor, his dear John... dear John... must write him a letter...

 _I know who he is, River. Oh dear. I know who he is. This is Sherlock Holmes._

Yes.... yes.... I must remember.... I must remember...... my name is Sherlock.... 

_Sherlock Holmes? **The** Sherlock Holmes? The great detective? Then this must be before he..._

_Yes. Not long before, though._

Before the hound gets me?

 _Is it a fixed point in time?_

_No... No, it isn't. But the pins, if you will, there are a lot of them. It will be difficult._

Pins... in time?

_Let's go, then, Doctor. We can't let it happen, not like that._

"Let... what.. happen? What.. happened to me?"

And to my terror, the great hound leaned close, shaggy blond mane falling about its jaws, its red eyes flashed, bared its teeth and whispered

_Spoilers._


	6. Shaggy Dog Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an oops on Mycroft's part.   
> Warning, extremely silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: image of a very mopey Huskey

"Oh stop moping, Sherlock," John Watson said.

The ice blue eyes flicked in his direction but otherwise, the long majestic head did not move.

"I mean, how were you to know? How were any of us to know?"

One ear wiggled and again the ice blue eyes flicked at him but Sherlock continued to be otherwise immobile.

"Alright, probably Mycroft knew and yes he could have warned us that the magic curse thing on the stolen artifact was real, but honestly would you have believed it? I wouldn't have, nobody would, after all, magic isn't real!"

This time the ice blue eyes glared in a way that communicated all too well the sentiment of "the hell it isn't!"

"Ohhhh what a beautiful huskey, John!" Mrs. Hudson, of course it would be Mrs. Hudson. She stooped to pet and Sherlock growled, very low, barely audible, but an unmistakable "don't touch me."

"Ah, best you not try to touch him, Mrs. H," John interjected, "I'm fostering him, hope you don't mind? He's got abandonment and trust issues, not very sociable, I'm working on that."

"Ohhh how sweet of you, John, of course I don't mind. The poor dog. What's his name?"

"Sherley," it was out before John could stop it and he winced. Sherlock's head snapped up off the floor and he _glared_ \- when a huskey _glares_ at you, you stay _glared_ at! "Errr, the owners thought he was a girl, can you believe that? They paid so little attention to him, didn't even bother to find out his proper gender, poor thing, we were just going out. Come on, Sherley, time for walkies!"

Sherlock got to his feet and fumed as John put his feet into the stupid silly booties and fitted the gentle leader to his face, glaring all the while with a glare that said that John was going to be replacing absolutely every pair of shoes he owned.


	7. Man's Best Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John brings home a new live-in. Sherlock's annoyed but quickly grows attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt: Rescues

"Why."

"Because he needs us."

"What's this 'we', kemosabe."

John rolled his eyes, "Alright, he needs me, is that better? Look, they just need a foster home for a few months and Mrs. Hudson said it was okay."

"A few months." Sherlock was still talking in full-stops, never a good sign. "Why _that._ Couldn't you have taken in some rats? Rats make good pets, there's no shortage of rats needing foster homes, you could have taken in some rats. Why a dog."

 _Because typical people adopt dogs._ John knew better than to say that though. "Look, I'll take care of feeding him and taking him to the vet, but.. um...."

"What."

"I'll need you to walk him."

"Walk him. Why?" John rolled his eyes yet again and gestured at his cane. Sherlock snorted, "It's psychosomatic. You haven't used it in months."

John blinked; he hadn't even noticed. "Well it still gives me trouble. Look, I've got a gentle leader for him and everything."

"Fine, fine, I'll walk your silly mutt for you," Sherlock sighed then finally looked around, "Good lord!"

"Yes. This is why I brought him home."

* * * *

With a dog's unerring instinct, Delgado, as he came to be called, had latched onto Sherlock like velcro. To Sherlock's disgust, he woke up with an armful of dog every morning, his slippers had been chewed, his favorite robe had been dragged off its hook every night and slept on, so it now had a permanent case of dog hair. Every day he went out, in all weather, with a pocketful of plastic baggies that never failed to see use. Every day he came back and fixed John with the _stare_ that accused him, without ever needing words, of saddling him with dog-walking so that John could get out of poop-scooping duty. 

Still, John was doing a marvellous job of training and Delgado was rehabilitating into a wonderful companion animal. And although he disliked how people always stopped him in the street, wanting to talk about the dog, it was rather gratifying how impressed they looked when Sherlock told them Delgado's story. 

Which is why all he said was "....oh," the day that John came home and told him that Delgado had been adopted. 

"They'll be coming by to pick him up at noon tomorrow," John added. He watched Sherlock's face carefully. 

"How nice for them."

 _Ah,_ John thought.

Sherlock wasn't home when Delgado's new family arrived. Delgado went with them, wagging his tail, but refused to let go of Sherlock's slipper. In the end, he took it with him. After they'd gone, John thought for a few minutes, then grabbed his coat and went out. 

* * * * 

"You're late."

"Sorry. Got caught in traffic."

There was a crash and Sherlock looked up. He felt unaccountably irritated. "What on earth are you doing? Oh, not again, John!"

"Sorry! But the rescue said we did such a fantastic job with Delgado, you see. And I bought you some new slippers. Oh, and hold this, will you?" John set a large carrier on Sherlock's desk, much to his annoyance.

He sighed and turned to look at the sad mongrel that was slinking into a corner, tail between its legs. "He's in worse shape than Delgado!"

"I know. We got the mites treated already though, he'll be fine." Another crash. "Won't be a mo, I just need to set up this cage."

"Cage? What for?"

"Look in the carrier. I took your advice. They were rescued from a hoarder."

Sherlock frowned then peered inside the carrier. John peered around the corner in time to see a wide smile spread across Sherlock's face as the frightened pet rats came out to sniff his hands.


End file.
